


The Mechanisms of an Immature Mind

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: A John based interlude. He had the best intentions for his boys. Addiction had other ideas.
Series: We Three Kings [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616
Kudos: 5





	The Mechanisms of an Immature Mind

_The theory of denial was first researched seriously by Anna Freud. She classified denial as a mechanism of the immature mind, because it conflicts with the ability to learn from and cope with reality._

John felt a little ill—and not just from a little too much whiskey. Sammy was teething, and it turned his usually easy-going little boy into a cranky, crying, unappeasable mess. Even worse, it just added to John’s feelings of helplessness: thinking of his dying wife, lost lives in battle, and then his wailing little son, who didn’t respond to his rocking or humming, the teething rings or frozen bagels, the microscopic doses of children’s Tylenol.

And, to add to John being the worst father ever, Sammy’s cries had frequently woken his four (soon to be five!)-year-old, who came down the steps rubbing his eyes and would spend hours trying to make Sammy laugh or play, and eventually curl into his side and sleep when baby Sam had cried himself to exhaustion.

And John would lay awake, holding the fragile bodies of his boys, and think _I can’t do anything good for you._

Thinking of Mary—her blonde hair, lost: her eyes, dull and lifeless—he wished, for the billionth time, that she’d lived and he’d gone. Feeling the warm, trusting bodies of his children was terrifiying. In his memories, she was Saintly: glowing, strong, wise, the perfect mother, the perfect wife. He forgot her stubbornness, her pride, her tendency to nag, her occasional intemperance. He thought of her frowning, hating him for his doubts, when in fact, the thought of parenting alone terrified him. He volleyed between fierce determination to be the greatest father on earth to wanting to give the boys up just so a real family could give them real love, without having their flawed, confused father taint them.

Sitting on the sofa, feeling drowsy and sad and missing his wife, the sound of laughter from the kitchen hurt all the more. A moment later, Sam came crawling out, at high-speed, his chubby little legs and arms moving as fast as they could, while his small mouth set between his chubby cheeks giggled and shrieked. Dean appeared behind him, grinning and play-stomping his feet, calling “Gonna get you!” to which Sam let out another burst of laughter and crawled harder. John grinned as the baby scrambled toward him, holding himself very still. Dean continued forward, stomping harder, causing Sammy to shriek even louder, and right as he entered the living room, John lunged forward, startling his youngest, who then screamed before bursting into laughter as John caught him up and shouted “gotcha!”

Dean laughed too, at Sammy’s piercing giggles, and John tossed the baby up a few times before hugging him close and letting a hand drop to rub Dean’s blonde head.

It was in these moments he couldn’t bear the thought of losing them. In these moments he thought _I can be a great Dad_ and pushed all his insecurities aside. His boys were laughing and loving him and he was laughing and loving them—because, no matter what else he sucked at, he _loved_ his kids, damnit—and he just wanted to freeze it and hang on and never feel anything else, ever.

Sam squirmed, reaching for the floor. John smiled and gripped him, firmly but never too tight, and flipped him head first toward the carpet. Sammy screamed with joy as John lifted him slowly, tossed him in the air, and flipped him once more. Dean was bubbling with laughter at his baby brother’s reactions, and John repeated tossed his boy a few more times before pulling his youngest close and kissing a chubby little cheek.

“What do you think, Dean,” he grinned. “Think we can get Sammy walking today?”

Dean beamed up at him and scrambled away. “He’s been practicing, Daddy!” he said. John kissed the squirming baby’s little cheek once more.

“I know. But he’s gonna need our help.” He lowered Sam to the floor, feet first, supporting the toddler under the arms, warm in his flannel shirt and overalls, before letting his hands grace up to his boy’s arms and his fingers catch Sammy’s small hands. The baby clung to his forefingers and used them to support his chubby legs, automatically moving one clumsy step forward, used to the movement.

Dean knelt in front of them, a few paces away, smiling and clapping his hands. “C’mon, Sammy! You can do it!” he called, arms outstretched. Sammy took another shaky step, and John eased his hands out of his son’s. Sammy’s chubby legs wobbled, and he fell to his knees, crawling toward Dean. Dean laughed and shook his head.

“ _No,_ Sammy,” he scolded, catching his brother and turning him carefully back toward John, imitating his father’s movements to keep the baby upright. “Like _this_. Go on.”

“You have to be patient, Dean,” John said, kneeling down and holding out his arms, smiling at his youngest, who was giggling and basking in the attention. “This was hard for you one day.”

“He keeps giving up, Daddy,” Dean said, letting go after Sam’s first wobbly step. Sammy stood for a few seconds, swaying, then returned to the safety of crawling and shot toward John. “See?”

“He’s scared. He’s never done this without one of us holding him,” John explained, scooping up his youngest and rubbing their noses together before gingerly setting him down. “And he can’t tell us that. We have to know what he needs and be encouraging.”

He held Sam’s hands once more and guided him upright, helping his first step.

“Wait!” Dean cried, causing Sammy to freeze, one foot still airborne. Dean sprinted toward them and stood alongside his brother, smiling. “We’ll do it together, Sammy, okay? I’ll go first.” He took a step, placing his two feet firmly apart. Sammy giggled and bounced and imitated his brother. “See? Now the other.” He stepped to pull his feet together. “Don’t be scared. It’s fun, see?”

John smiled and took the next few steps with his boys: Dean, leading the way; Sammy, following; John, at both their backs. And then he slowly eased his fingers out of Sammy’s little hands and watched his boys moving off and away from him, Sam’s steps a miniature imitation of his brother’s, Dean beaming with pride as his brother moved slowly along with him, and felt so much love he felt, for sure, that he could beat anything and everything else, all the critics be damned.

  



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